


the dread wolf takes her

by haemat



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haemat/pseuds/haemat
Summary: When she read elven theology as a child, she was fully convinced that she was followed by the Dread Wolf.





	

The black wolf stands on a distant hill on the edge of the Korcari Wilds, a still and imposing figure cut through the tree trunks and standing impossibly surefooted in what Morrigan knows is a particularly deeply wet piece of swamp.

She's seen it before, innumerable times. It has existed in these wilds since she was a baby. And now, it stands the same twenty years later as it always did. She knows it is the same wolf because it always appears in the same way. Large and ominous, always a safe distance away, too far to reach with magic, and a deep, deep, impossibly deep black color. The only light that seems to escape it is the bright, almost knowing shine of its eyes, brighter than the light of any moon or fire.

When she read elven theology as a child, she was fully convinced that she was followed by the Dread Wolf. It seemed the obvious explanation. Why Fen'harel himself would single her out as someone to not only watch, but to watch openly, almost threateningly, she could never decide. It did speak to her ego, though, so she grew to almost look forward to their meetings. Though it happened with regularity, her determination to find answers to her questions never faded.

Now, she's more skeptical. She's more or less decided that the wolf is a particularly adamant demon taking the form of Fen'harel, looking for an opportunity to take her. Its voice, though, is strange. It sounds like countless, nigh-unintelligible whispers on the edge of her consciousness. She's began to pick out more phrases from the chorus over the many years it's followed her.

"Smear the blood," and "Eat it raw," are some of the more innocuous ones. "Drown in peat," and "Take the form of nothing," are the more threatening ones. The Dread Wolf hardly seems eager to take her, but to have her take herself, in a sense. He threatens her almost nightly.

It's too far for magic, yes, but she defiantly shoots a cone of frost  in its direction all the same. It does not react. She returns to her gathering of herbs, jaw set.

"Mother keeps secrets," she hears through the echoing voices. "Thousandth child of Flemeth. Hundreds more to come."

She whips around, eyes wild, but the wolf and the voices are now gone.

She's never heard it say a name before.

That's enough herbs for now. She feels sick to her stomach. If she brews a tea with some elfroot, that may ease it.

 

* * *

 

She camps in solitude, separate from the group she travels with. Their leader occasionally  makes the short trek out to speak to her, but she sleeps now, having been injured in their clashes with darkspawn that day. Morrigan was the one to sort through the herbs they had gathered and apply a salve, being the most knowledgeable from a life of such things. There's nothing more to be done now but have the Warden rest.

Morrigan kneels by her fire, contemplating the events of the day. It was a simple journey, cut through darkspawn territory, which has grown considerably as of late. It's not common for one of them to get injured, but anything can happen in the heat of battle.

But when she heard Mahariel cry out, saw her fall to the ground with two darkspawn on her, something in Morrigan's mind snapped. She instantly ignored the enemies she was contending with to transform into a great black bear, which barreled over the darkspawn converging on the Warden, a battering ram of gnashing tooth and tearing claw. Her fur was matted with black, black blood before long, but Mahariel survived.

Why did she react that way? Sure, of course she didn't want her traveling companion to die and leave her less defended, times being as they are, and their journey, in a way, depended on Mahariel's continued survival. But she wasn't thinking about that at the time. She wasn't thinking at all, in fact. She reacted on pure instinct.

Two very large and deep, deep black paws step into view before her, and she recognizes them before she even looks up. The shine of the wolf's eyes pierces her own, and she breaks eye contact instantly, but she dares not give it the satisfaction of forced deference by looking away.

This is the closest she's ever been to the false Dread Wolf. It seems to absorb the light of her fire into an inky, impossible blackness that takes the light of even the air surrounding it.

It's also the first time she's seen it since leaving the Korcari Wilds. She had thought she was finally rid of it.

When its voices finally catch up with it, one deep, echoing voice pierces through all others in a way none ever have before.

"She speaks to you without speaking," it says.

"Explain yourself or free me from your presence," Morrigan snaps back.

"The Warden will take you," it continues.

"Were she a demon, I would still never let her," is Morrigan's response. Then, she says with finality, "I will not converse with you any further. 'Tis pointless to reason with a true demon such as yourself."

"She is Flemeth's familiar. Opportunity presents itself. She has a hold on your soul. She speaks without speaking."

True to her word, Morrigan says nothing more. But it is less the consequence of her promise, and more so the chill running down her spine and freezing her in place. She locks eyes with the wolf, the brightness no longer directly shining at her. She almost asks the wolf to explain further, but, she realizes it's looking at something, and follows its gaze over her shoulder.

Mahariel's tent. Where she sleeps, weak and vulnerable. Then, alarmingly, Morrigan sees the black wolf tread a path straight into the tent.

Snapping out of her trance and to her feet, she rushes to the tent, staff forgotten in her hurry. Never unprepared, though, she fishes out a knife strapped to the inside of the leather strips of her skirt and brandishes it the instant she enters Mahariel's tent.

The tent itself is a closely kept darkness, shielded from the moonlight and firelight of the outside. Morrigan's eyes dart every which way for any sign of the wolf's black, black fur in the blackness, ears strained for any miniscule noise that could give it away, but even its voice is gone. Once her eyes adjust, she sees only Mahariel, sleeping in her bedroll.

The expression on her face as she sleeps is strangely ominous. Perhaps it is simply the injuries bothering her, but she looks... dangerous, almost.

_She has a hold on your soul,_ it says. Just now, Morrigan was afraid for Mahariel's life. Was it because Mahariel has cast some sort of spell on her?

Don't be foolish, Morrigan. Mahariel is no mage.

Though Templars need no magic to do what they do...

Mahariel suddenly stirs, blinking blearily up at Morrigan, rubbing an eye as she mumbles, "Who...?"

It is now that Morrigan realizes she has raised her knife above Mahariel's chest. She slowly lowers it, but does not put it away.

"Oh, Morrigan," Mahariel says pleasantly when her squinting finally identifies the silhouette. "Couldn't help but check on me, could you? If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were worried for me."

Morrigan squeezes the knife at her side.

"I only thought 'twould be embarrassing for all of us if our leader, a Grey Warden, were to fall at the hands of a simple herd of darkspawn," she says, but her tone doesn't match the words. She can hear it herself. She sounds distant.

Mahariel knits her brow and sits up, ceasing her teasing and opting instead for concern. "You don't sound yourself, Morrigan. Are you actually that worried? I promise you, I'll be hale and hearty before long."

Morrigan glares down at Mahariel.

"I meant only as I said, nothing more," she replies sharply. "You hear what you wish to. If you are that surprised that I am showing a trace of concern for you, then you truly must think me a fool who cares not for the lives of her traveling companions!"

With that, she whips around and throws aside the flap of the tent, exiting before her leader can say anything more.

Mahariel has some kind of hold on her, Morrigan's convinced of it now. What its complete nature is, she cannot say. Only the Dread Wolf can answer that question, and who knows when she will see him again. And now she's missed the perfect opportunity to kill Mahariel and be rid of it. But she doesn't want to kill Mahariel. She's sure she doesn't want to.

When Flemeth dies, then she'll be free. She knows that now.

 

* * *

 

Morrigan believes Mahariel when she tells her that Flemeth is dead.

It's a strange feeling. Relief mixed with loss with a dash of guilt and a sprinkling of pure freedom, though she knows that Flemeth may very well come back. Morrigan sits alone, as always, at her own campfire, and she's comfortable with that. She's never felt so much faith in another person in her life. With Flemeth, it was constant betrayal and manipulation and looking over her shoulder. But with Mahariel, Morrigan can be sure she's being told the truth. She can be sure that Mahariel is willing to do whatever it takes to ensure Morrigan is safe.

It's a stranger feeling than the thought that Flemeth is dead. She doesn't know what to do with it.

"Run now," a booming voice echoes in her ears. "Run now, and don't look back."

Morrigan jerks up, hand moving to her staff. Before her is a wolf of shaggy fur in deep, deep black. Its shining eyes hurt to look at, so she looks at the gentle glint of its cracked and crooked teeth.

"I did what you said, demon," she says defiantly. "I had Flemeth killed, but not because I was following any order. I knew it was the right path for myself. I had the thought before you ever gave it to me."

"Think to run," the wolf says, voice clearer than ever. "Run now, and don't look back."

"I will do what I like," Morrigan insists, sending a simple bolt of magic at the wolf. The wolf's form dissolves in a straight line cut through like billowing smoke, only to reform itself just as quickly. This is the first time she has ever used magic and actually hit it... in a way. Even demons can be hurt with magic. What is the wolf? Fen'harel himself?

"You must run," he says. Morrigan strikes through him with her wood staff, feeling nothing but the clash of it against the dirt below. "You must run. You must run. You must run." His voice continues to repeat itself, over and over, over and over, over and over, as Morrigan's staff hits the ground frantically with solid cracks of wood against earth, the wolf's form only deep, deep black smoke, formless and scattered. "You must run. You must run. You must run." Morrigan's staff cracks hard and splinters, and she casts it aside, clawing through the mist with her own hands, willing it to leave her, finally leave her --  it's been thirty long years and she wants only to be rid of the Dread Wolf -- she forgets to transform because she just desperately wants it gone.

The smoke has been gone for a while, she realizes. Her frantic motions finally ease, and she stares without breathing where the wolf once was. Her hair has come undone, strands hanging wild over her face and shoulders. She turns her head to her broken staff, where it lies sadly in the mud.

She slowly gathers it into her arms, and breaks off the splintered portion more cleanly. She uses her knife to clean the splinters off and quietly, dutifully mixes up a sealant from her supply of herbs and other ingredients. She rubs it into the cleaned wood. The lyrium planted inside wasn't hurt. It should still work fine, only standing a bit shorter.

She sighs and fixes her hair up and out of her face once again.

"Dread Wolf," she murmurs. "May I take you."

 

* * *

 

A shaggy black wolf pads through the mountains on the edge of Ferelden. She is with child, though it doesn't show yet. It's only been a month since the Archdemon Urthemiel was slain and she felt his soul inhabit the growing child within her.

She reaches the top of a mountain path and, below her, sees trees she knows belong to Orlais. Between them stands a single figure of a wolf, seen only in a silhouette of deep, deep blackness, blacker than her own fur. Blacker than anything else she's ever seen.

A chorus of indistinct voices rises to her ears, and she stares down at its source: the other wolf. Through the cacophony, she hears snippets of another, deep and echoing voice that she can hardly make out.

All she can decipher is, "Too late to run," echoed in the shine of its eyes.

The pregnant wolf thinks better of retreating to Orlais. Perhaps there is more for her in Ferelden yet.

She turns from the darker wolf and stalks away down the mountains once more.

 

* * *

 

Morrigan sits with her young son in her lap, book in his, as she reads to him. He is only two, but he already shows intelligence beyond his years. She hopes to teach him to read, rather than forcing him to learn on his own as Flemeth did to her. She points to the words as she reads them, and he follows along dutifully.

"She holds you still," a sharp voice suddenly rings out in the relative quiet. Morrigan falls silent, attention diverted to a solitary shaggy wolf with fur a deep, deep black and shining eyes that stands before the both of them. Morrigan doesn't say anything, conscious of her son in her arms.

She's never been with another person when the wolf appeared before. This is the first time.

"She gave him to you," the Dread Wolf says through his chorus of voices.

"Mother?" Kieran asks, looking up at his mother who has suddenly stopped reading. "What does that say?"

"One moment, Kieran," Morrigan tells him. "We have a guest."

"Flemeth holds you still," the voice echoes over all others.

"I didn't hear the door," Kieran says, confused. Morrigan looks down at him.

Does he not see the Dread Wolf?

"Not a guest, Kieran. An intruder. I have something very... personal to tell you."

Kieran rises from her lap and turns to face her, curious. His mother rarely talks about herself.

"Kill the boy," the Dread Wolf demands. "Kill the boy before he kills you."

Morrigan rubs her temple. "Kieran," she begins, and isn't sure where to go from there. She has never told anyone about the wolf. She doesn't know where to even begin. The Dread Wolf haunts her like a ghost, but is she supposed to simply say that? "Since I was a very young child," she finally begins, "I have been followed by the Dread Wolf. You remember who that is, right, Kieran?"

"I remember," Kieran says. "And that's not the Dread Wolf."

"Kill him," the Dread Wolf demands.

Morrigan only stares at her son, not knowing what else to say. How does he know? What would he know at all of the Dread Wolf? Can he see it after all? Her mind is racing and the echoes of the wolf's voices in her head are making it hard to concentrate on anything at all.

"He will be your end. He will be your end. He will be your end. He will be your end," the wolf cries. Its shining eyes pierce her in a way moonlight or firelight never could.

Morrigan realizes now that she hasn't been breathing. Her mouth is very dry. Her fingers are shaking.

"Mother?" Kieran asks after her, placing his hand on her forehead. "Mother, you look sick."

Morrigan flinches away.

"Mother?"

"Kieran, 'tis time for bed," Morrigan says sternly. Kieran looks confused, almost like he wants to argue, but he doesn't say anything as she promptly helps him dress in his nightclothes. Morrigan lifts him into the bed and crawls in beside him to stare up at the ceiling. After she hears him begin to lightly snore, she covers her face with her hands.

The wolf continues to cry well into the night.

 

* * *

 

It told her not to drink. It told her not to drink from the Well and she didn't listen. And now she is bound to the will of Mythal which possesses Flemeth, Urthemiel is gone from Kieran, and Flemeth has never lost her.

Kieran sleeps soundly, free of his nightmares at last, in the bed beside hers in Skyhold. Morrigan is not so lucky. She lies on her side, covering her face, raking at her forehead and eyelids. How could she be so foolish as to let this happen? Now she'll never escape Flemeth, and it's all her own fault. All she ever wanted was to be free to live with her son.

A chorus of voices rises to her ears. She screws her eyes shut and covers her ears tightly, but it does nothing to muffle them.

"She has a hold on your soul," a singular, booming voice rings out. She can't see its source, refuses to see it. "Poison yourself on raw darkspawn flesh and drink black blood and bile."

Stop. Stop. Stop. The word echoes in her mind.

"Mythal takes you."

"If you are not the Dread Wolf," Morrigan whispers sharply, "what vile creature of the Fade are you? What are you, that you cannot be harmed and can be anywhere at all?"

"Take the form of nothing," is its only answer. "Become nothing."

"I will take whatever form I please!" she whispers. She throws aside the covers of her bed and storms out of her room, and the wolf follows her through the halls of Skyhold and out onto the ramparts. Morrigan transforms into a dragon, shooting off into the skies and leaving the wolf behind on the ramparts of Skyhold.

She flies until she tires, finding an isolated cave to crawl into and sleep in the dragon's form. The physical exertion makes sleep come easy now. She rests amid the cold rock of the mountains.

She awakes at dawn and flies back to Skyhold before Kieran notices her absence.

She is stronger than Flemeth's mark on her, than the wolf's mark on her. She's been claimed by too many. She will not let herself be overpowered. She will not let anything come between her and her life with her son. She will rise above.

She dresses in the morning and leaves Kieran to his studies, taking her place in the courtyard gardens like there is no deep, deep black wolf and no Mythal at all.


End file.
